Patient
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: After he dissapeared through the mirror, what became of the Phantom? He has been reduced to little more than a wounded animal, and needs more than the world can give him.
1. Chapter 1: Killer

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom. But I did check a copy of the book out from the library.

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**Patient**

**Chapter 1: Killer**

The mirror shattered, showering the man in shards of broken glass. He brushed several fragments off his face, not noticing the blood they drew as they tumbled away, an picked up his mask. The cool ivory fitted elegantly over his deformed features as he gazed into the terrible abyss before him. Behind him, the roar of an angry mob grew louder as they stampeded down the catacombs, making thier way to his chamber. He paused for only a moment before plunging into the darkness behind the mirror.

Black nothingness consumed him as he pushed forward, and suddenly, he was afraid. Logic abandoned him. His pace quickened to a jog. Then a run. At last it was a wild sprint- he was desperate to escape, though he wasn't sure from what. Thoughts and emotions chased each other through his mind as he ran.

Fear.

Of what, he wasn't sure. Of death? Did he want to live? No...that wasn't it. His opera house was gone. Christine was gone. And his music with her.

Anger.

At himself? For allowing himself to become a beast? A monster? For succumbing to jealousy and lust?

At Christine? For choosing Raoul over him? For not returning his love?

At the world itself? At the cruelty he had felt?

He wasn't sure.

Sorrow.

He had lost everything. Of course he was feeling mournful. But there was something more to it...

He recoiled suddenly as the warm dank of the tunnel ended abruptly. The man groped desperately in front of him. At last he found the block of stone and threw all his weight at it, again and again, until it came loose. One more frantic throw, and the stone fell away, sending him tumbling into a narrow alley.

He tried once to rise to his feet, but as he did, the panicked energy that had possessed him earlier drained away, leaving nothing but emptiness and exhaustion. Bleeding, bruised, and broken, he fell to the ground.

"Marcel! Over there!"

"What is going on, Jaimie?"

"A man! He's hurt!"

"Oh Heaven...Hurry, Jamie, get the horse. This man needs help...Lord in Heaven!"

"What is it?"

"Don't look- just-"

"Never mind that! He needs help. Help me get him up!"

A pause.

"You're right, Jaimie."

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Slowly he opened heavy eyes to meet a distorted display of light and color, bright enough to sear. His eyes retreated once more behind the shelter of darkness.

"Oh! You're awake, Monsieur," he heard a soft voice say. He blinked, and slowly his eyes adjusted to the light. A room came into focus, and leaning over him, a young woman. He jerked as he realized that a familiar weight was gone. The girl's expression became clouded with worry. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "You must be in pain...I'm sorry..."

He tried to speak, but only a shallow croak left his mouth.

"You must be parched," the woman said. Gently she tilted his head up and pressed a cool ceramic cup to his lips. The man drank gratefully, allowing soothing water to run down his throat. Once the cup was drained, it was lifted from his mouth.

"My...mask..." he groaned.

"What...Oh!" she ducked to the side after a moment of confusion, returning with his ivory mask. "Is this what you want?" The man's eyes widened as he realized that she had seen him without the mask in her hand. Even now she was looking at his gruesome, disfigured face... His hand went immediately to cover the distortion. The woman looked pained.

"I didn't mean to offend," she said softly. He felt bandages beneath his hand- one next to his eye, the other on his cheek. "But you were bleeding."

"How long...?" he whispered. The girl ducked away again, and he heard a trickle of water. Again she lifted his head and brought the refilled cup to his mouth.

"You've been asleep for four days," she said as he drank. "You had a fever." He swallowed.

"And where am I? How did I get here?"

"You are at my house- or mine and my brother's, we live here together, you see. We found you lying in the street a few days ago and brought you here. That's all there is to tell, really."

"You should not have brought me here," he said darkly. He looked up into her eyes, daring her to run.

"Why not?" she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

"I am a murderer," he said. "I killed two men. Perhaps more. I may yet slaughter you." He saw the girl swallow.

"Then I will have to manage that when it comes. For now, you need to rest. You only just recovered from that fever."

"Don't you understand? I killed a man! I am dangerous!"

"You aren't the only one who has passed through a storm, Monsieur." He shuddered at the title. It was meant for a man. Not for a monster like himself.

"Don't call me that," he said, avoiding the girl's eyes.

"What would you have me call you, then?"

Silence.

"Mon- I mean...um..." she stumbled over her own words.

"I...I'm weary. If you would be so kind..."

"Of course," she said softly. She rose to her feet and walked out of his vision. He heard a door creak as it opened. "My name is Jaimie," she whispered, closing the door behind her.

Jaimie.

The man had not lied. As soon as the door was closed, his head fell back on the pillow, and he fell into an exhausted slumber.


	2. Chapter 2: Guest

Disclaimer: to the tune of 'All I Ask of You', main chorus

_Say you'll sue from me my one last dollar,_

_Say you'll sue me, Erik will kill you,_

_I swear that I own nothing but Jaimie,_

_Read my fic and please don't sue!_

_That's all I ask of you..._

AN: I might have gotten it wrong, but back in the olden days (talking like my parents now) there was no such thing as 'lunch'. Thier noon meal was called as supper. I think. I might have gotten it wrong, but that's just me. Tons of people already know that, but just for the rest of us, and to avoid confusion, there it is.

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**Chapter 2: Guest**

Soon after he woke, the man sat up and looked around. There was a window close to the bed: curtained, though some light still escaped, dimly illuminating the room. The bed he slept on was a simple one, and shared the chamber with a table and chair, equally simple. The walls were unadorned. On the table lay his clothes, washed, mended and folded neatly (he examined himself and realized that he was wearing a shirt and breeches, though they were unfamiliar. Like everything else in the room, they were simple and modest). By the clothes was a pitcher of water, placed within a washing basin, and beside it a ceramic cup. By the cup was Christine's engagement ring and his ivory mask. Immediately he seized it and replaced it over his face. Almost as soon as he did, he heard a rap at the door. Instinctively he searched for a place to dissapear, but found nothing before the door opened, revealing the girl. Jaimie.

"Oh" she cried out in surprise. "Forgive me, I thought you were asleep" He didn't know how to respond. She was asking for _his_ forgiveness?

"So..." she continued timidly"Are you hungry" He was puzzled at this.

"What"

"It's almost noon, and you haven't eaten in days...Would you like something to eat? My brother and I are about to have dinner, you see." He was about to refuse, but was stopped by a low roar that escaped from his abdomon. Jaimie smiled good naturedly.

"I...think I will have something to eat" he said quietly.

"I'm glad" Jaimie said, holding out her hand to him. He hesitated. It was a simple gesture, but it bothered him. Madame Giry had offered him her hand in the same way when she brought him to the opera house. He had so extended his own hand to Christine, not so long ago, when he brought her for the first time into his own chambers. He had never accepted this girl's help, nor her brother's. Could he...?

"I may yet kill you" he said at last, taking her hand. Jaimie nodded sagely.

"You might" she said. "But I suggest you eat first." She began to walk, and he followed, allowing her to guide him through the house. The remainder of the house followed suit with his own room, its only decoration coming from flowers and an occasional homemade quilt or pillow. It was small, and only a few moments passed before they were in the kitchen, where a young man, only a few years older than Jaimie, was setting a table, with a chair at every side.

"Well, Jaimie" he said, looking up. "It seems our guest has awakened. Did you sleep well"

"...I did..." the man said quietly.

"Brother, you forget your manners" Jaimie scolded with a kind laugh. "This is my brother, Marcel."

"And what is your name" He gratefully noticed that both of the siblings refrained from calling him 'monsieur'.

"Erik" he said at last, finally disclosing his name.

"A pleasure to meet you, Erik" Marcel said. "Please, sit." Erik obeyed, feeling faint. The young man walked away and began to set food on the table, and Erik noticed him studying his mask for an instant as he walked by. He struggled to keep himself from standing and dissapearing into another room. People themselves did not frighten him, but he was unnerved to have them looking at him, being aware of him. It summoned too many memmories of his childhood, of an iron cage and a cruel fist...

He somehow managed to remain in his seat while they finished setting the table and said the grace. The meal, of course, was a simple one, and passed in silence.

Erik sat heavily in the chair in his room, staring at the door. It wasn't locked. Jamie had assured him of that.

'You're not a prisoner, you know,' she had said. 'You are free to leave at any time. But you are also free to stay. No one here will make you do anything you don't want to do, Erik.'

There had been a certain emphasis on those last words, a meaning that he couldn't quite grasp. Had she seen his discomfort? His...fear?

He was afraid. He had nowhere to go, no reason to live. He didn't have the heart to sing or the courage to step out into the forgiving crowds that surely waited outside the door of this house. Even venturing outside his room had been a challenge for him.

He jerked. The room, the chair he sat in, the clothes he wore...none of them were his. Only the mask on his cursed face and the folded clothes on the table belonged to him. His eyes rested on the ring that lay by his clothes.

Christine...

She didn't belong to him either. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Jaimie heard faint sobs through the closed door. She sighed and continued toward the kitchen.

"An interesting guest we've picked up, Jaimie" Marcel said from a wash basin, where he was cleaning the silverware- some of the only silver in the house.

"Yes, he is" his sister agreed, pulling out a small towel and drying the cleaned dishes.

"Well, he seems pleasant enough." Jaimie smiled wryly. "What's so funny"

"Nothing" she said. She hadn't told her brother about Erik's warnings about being a killer. Marcel shrugged.

"By the looks of his clothes, it seems he was well off. Once, at least. I wonder why he got so torn up when we found him" he mused.

"It's none of our buisness" she said. "He's in enough pain without our picking at it."

"Yes...Do you think he has any family"

"Marcel"

"I know, I know, it's none of my buisness. But I do wonder, you know."

"You are a dreamer, Marcel."

"A dreamer and a factory worker. Whatever will become of us" he threw his hands up in mock despair. Jaimie batted at him with her washcloth.

"We're going to clean these dishes, that's what."


	3. Chapter 3: Night

Disclaimer: If I owned Phantom, I would be going to Paris tomorrow, rather than High School. Or maybe Germany. Yup, Germany. Because I don't speak a word of French. But then, Erik is in Paris...

AN: Shorter than usual, yes. Do I care? Yes, but I can't think of anything else right now. Review, and please send me your ideas, so I may get SOMETHING to continue this story! And forgive me if it seems like I'm focusing too much on Jaimie. It's all about Erik. I'll try to remember that. Oh yes, and I'll give you the next chapter if you give me a review. Just one. That's all I ask. ONE (1) review. Please?

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**Chapter 3: Night**

Erik crept silently out of his room a few hours after the sun had set. He had left it earlier for dinner, which had passed as silently as the first meal, but not since then. He glanced around him, taking in the cool shadows of the night: he needed no candle to light his way through the dark. Under the shelter of night, he wandered through the hallway. Uninhibited by nothing but practiced caution, he noiselessly opened the first door he came to. Creeping inside, he noticed another bed, not unlike his own, occupied by a sleeping figure. The figure, apparently Marcel, stirred for an instant, disturbed by an unfamiliar sound in the night. Erik took care to quiet his steps and continued his exploration of the room. There was a trunk by the bed, which Erik silently opened, revealing a few sets of clothing. It occurred to him suddenly that the clothes he was wearing most likely belonged to Marcel. There was a dresser in the corner, and lying on top of it lay a pistol, and beside it a knife. A chair and a few other random trinkets were in the room, but they held no interest for Erik, and he left the room, easing the door closed behind him.

He slid into the next room just as silently, and was startled by a pale light that flooded the chamber. Recoiling for a second, he realized that the curtains had been drawn in the room, and the silvery light that washed over the ground had come from the full moon that hung outside the window. The moonlight illuminated, as in Marcel's room, a trunk, a dresser, a chair, and a bed. In the bed, tucked beneath a hand sewn quilt, lay Jaimie, her face turned toward the moonlight. For a moment, the girl reminded him of Christine...but the moment passed, and Erik stalked bitterly from the room. The rest of the house was nearly as plain as it had been in the daylight, if not slightly . He crept around, examining everything he could, hoping to distract himself from the sting of Christine's memmory.

The night was almost over before he considered returning to his room. The sky was beginning to fade from the powerful black he admired to a sleepy coal. Rather than bump into the owners of the house, he made his way quietly back to his own room.

Or at least, he tried.

"Oh!" came a soft cry as he turned around, right into Jaimie. Erik struggled not to cry out himself. "I'm sorry, Erik," the girl continued, her voice low. "I didn't realize that you would be up this early."

"Evidently not," he said, keeping his voice impassive. "Am I to suppose you always wake before dawn?" The girl shrugged and nodded, but then caught herself, realizing that most people wouldn't see the gestures.

"I do," she ammended. "I have to, to get to work on time, you see." This pricked Erik's curiosity.

"Indeed?" he asked. "Where is it, pray tell, that you work?" The girl offered a hidden smile.

"Cafe Rouge," she said, slowly walking along the wall, hoping to get around her guest without bumping into him again. She would perhaps have failed a few times, had Erik not stepped out of her way occasionally. He was amused with her effort. "It's downtown: getting there takes me a half hour, comfortably."

"Does it? Couldn't you get another job? Closer, perhaps?"

"I don't know, really. Rouge has me as a waitress, and the pay is generous. Marcel doesn't want me working in the factories like he does, and I'm not sure of too many other buisnessess that hire women." Jaimie was making her way to one of the cupboards, where Erik had earlier discovered several candles were stored.

"Why doesn't your brother want you to work in a factory?" Erik had spent almost his entire life in the opera house. He had heard of the factories, but he had no real knowledge of them. He allowed his curiosity to dominate the conversation, though he crept back into a corner.

"There!" Jaimie said quietly as she struck a match, lighting the candle in her hand. It cast a dim light over the room, though Erik, safe in the corner, remained in shadow. "It's dangerous, you see," she said easily. "We're always hearing stories about people losing fingers and hands to those blasted factory machines."

"I see," Erik said. "But Marcel still works there."

"I don't like him being there either, but he can't get work anywhere else, and it keeps food on the table. Anyway," she said. suddenly brightening. "Enough about that. There's no use in dwelling on things you can't change. Were you up all night?" Erik was slightly startled by this abrupt change in mood, though he refused to let it show.

"I was...I prefer the night," he explained, noticing Jaimie's concerned expression. The girl nodded thoughtfully.

"It is nice..." she agreed, setting her candle down on the table. She searched through one cabinet and pulled out a serrated knife and pulled a basket off the counter. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked Erik, and he saw that a loaf of bread was lying humbly in the basket. He told her that he would, and she swiftly cut two large slices off the loaf, taking the heel and offering the other to her guest. They ate in silence, as usual, thier breakfast spiced with strawberry jam. Finally Jaimie stood and dusted herself off.

"Well, I must be off," she said. "If I delay any longer I'm afraid I'll be late. Have a nice day, Erik!" He watched her from the door as she strolled purposefully through the dark. Once she was out of sight, he retreated back into the house. He douced the candle, having no need for the light, and began examining the kitchen once more. Apparently he had missed the drawer of knives in his previous search.

He was mistaken, however. The knives were tucked away with some other minor silverware, and there were only a few of them. But his curiosity, once rekindled, was not to be dimmed, and a new idea had entered his mind. He stealthily made his way to Jaimie's room, now gracefully unoccupied. The paling sky lit the chamber enough even for normal eyes, and for his they cast the room into great detail. Flowers, dried and fresh, adorned every wall, some of them growing in a small box on her windowsill. He continued on to the trunk at the base of her bed. Within it were a few dresses- a nice, black one, most likely for Worship, and three rather ordinary looking garments, not unlike what she had been wearing that morning. There were also several sets of undergarments, but Erik left those alone. Finding nothing else in the trunk, he replaced the garments and moved on to the dresser. On top of it, a single white lilly was sitting in a small glass jar, otherwise filled with water. He opened its drawer, revealing a hairbrush, comb, and a few other random articles. Satisfied at last, he returned to his own room.

He heard Marcel begin to walk through the house a few hours later, but made no effort to greet him. One case of human contact was enough for his morning.


	4. Chapter 4: Intruder

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Never have. And unless I professionally publish anything, I never will. Okay. Putting that aside, sue me and I will sick Martha Stewart on you. But don't worry, Erik will sing at your funeral.

AN: Thank you Kitty for your advice and support! And thank you for allowing you to ruthlessly bounce my ideas off you. I hope I didn't cause any serious bruises. To all you other readers, you're still important to me. Read and review! I really need input on this chapter, because I'm not sure how it turned out.

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**Chapter 4: Intruder**

Erik wandered outside of the house occasionally while its occupants were gone. He found that the house was relatively secluded, surrounded by sparse trees, most of them bare of leaves in the last bitter weeks of winter. On one side of the house lay a slushy road, and the other had a large patch cleared of trees, in which a barn sat comfortably. A workhorse was grazing in a paddock near what would soon be a vegetable garden. A variety of plants, evidently flowers, poked their green stems out from the snow that surrounded the walls of the house. Only one flower had bloomed, an unusual Lilly, under one of the windows. He recognized this as being the source of the flowers in Jaimie's room.

He considered leaving. Jaimie had said that she walked to Paris every morning, so it couldn't be far off. If he followed the way she had gone earlier that day, he would reach it easily, and perhaps he could return to his Opera House. He saw no flaw in this plan: Jaimie herself had said that he was free to leave if he wanted to.

Despite his decision, he wandered more around the field. He wasn't new to gardens and the outdoors, but the isolation of the grounds was inviting, and he appeased his oversized curiosity by examining every variety of flowers and trees that entered his field of vision. After at least an hour of studying the foliage, he turned his attention to the horse and its barn. This creature was a chestnut stallion, particularly friendly and gentle, though not nearly as elegant or refined as his own Cesar. Erik felt no remorse in losing the steed. The angry mob had found Cesar without difficulty and taken him back to the Opera stables from whence he had come. The stable manager was no fool around horses, though he was about everything else. Nonetheless, Cesar would be taken care of.

Erik enjoyed the small stable: he recalled what some of the articles were used for. Some of them were foreign to him, though, and he made a game of guessing the purposes of these objects.

He left the barn and headed to the house, in order to change into his own clothes. As soon as he was dressed, he would be able to leave once and for all. He was almost at the door of the house when he heard Jaimie's voice through a window:

"Oh!...Can I...help you, Monsieur?"

Marcel shifted uneasily as he adjusted the fabric in the machine. His sister, though kind at heart, was simply too naive for her own good. He couldn't deny the good intentions behind boarding Erik at their house, but...the man disturbed him. It wasn't only his face, but everything about him: the way he crept through the shadows and avoided light, the way he spoke, as though he was some kind of strange animal, the odd way he studied everything he saw...

But all of that could be ignored. The thing that truly nagged at him was the fact that he knew nothing about Erik, and Jaimie would soon be coming home. She finished work a few hours before he did, and in that time, his little sister would be absolutely alone with a strange man. For all he knew, Erik could be anything, even a murderer!

Marcel shook his head to clear it. He needed to focus on his job. There was no use exciting himself with fanciful stories.

Jaimie hummed softly as she returned home. Work had gone well, and a few of her customers had left generous tips at their tables. Vaguely she wondered if Erik would still be at the house. She couldn't tell if he actually wanted to leave or not: he had been quite pleasant in the morning, but nothing could drive the sounds of his sobs from her mind. She sighed indecisively and came to the front door.

It was open.

Jaimie blinked curiously. Perhaps Erik had left it open, to let in some air. Or perhaps he had forgotten to close it when he left. She stepped inside, and wandered through the house. She heard a sound of rummaging in the kitchen. This bothered her. As far as she had seen, Erik did everything in silence. His steps, his voice, everything about him was quiet, if not completely silent.

"Oh!" she exclaimed softly as she walked in on a strange man. He wore dusty clothes, his hair fell in clumps across his neck and face, and he himself was stooped greedily over the kitchen drawers, stuffing the little silverware into his pockets. Presently he jumped up, staring at Jaimie in surprise. "...Can I...Help you, Monsieur?" she asked. For an instant, the man was completely still and silent. Then suddenly he sprang forward, striking Jaimie across the face. The blow was so hard that she staggered back into the wall.

"Help me?" the man laughed hideously. "Help me?" he pulled a pistolMarcel's's pistol, Jaimie realizedfrom his pocket and aimed it at her. "Yes. Ye can help me. Is anyone with ye? Speak!" Jaimie flinched, but shook her head. A terrible fear washed over her. "Good...Does ye live here alone?" The barrel of the pistol was now pressed against her forehead.

"No," she gasped, too afraid to move.

I'm going to die, she realized. I'm going to die...

"Who else lives 'eer, then?" the man barked.

"My brother!" Jaimie whispered.

"And where is 'ee?"

"At the textile mill," she swallowed as the hammer was drawn down, setting the weapon to fire.

"And when'll 'ee be back?" The man was only a few inches away from her. Jaimie's eyes were wide with terror. She was trembling too hard to make a sound. The man laughed cruelly and pressed the cold steel of the gun against her temple.

"Answer me, girly," he hissed into her ear. Jaimie shuddered as she received a nosefull of the man's foul breath.

"Please...Please leave," she said. The man put his free hand on her shoulder and laughed again.

"Leave? But the fun 'asn't even started yet...Argh!" he cried out as the pistol was wrenched upward, safely away from Jaimie. She watched in terrified fascination as a strong arm wrapped around the intruder's neck, and another forced the gun away from its intended victim. The stranger swore, and an instant later he was thrown across the room. The gun went off, sending whisps of smoke into the air. Jaimie cried out and sank to her knees, though from fear rather than injury. Her rescuer remained silent as he dove at the intruder. He struck the man several times across the face and chest, though one hand was always on the pistol, keeping the other man from firing again. Jaimie's attacker didn't refrain from retaliation, though. He returned dozens of blows to his adversary, many of them forcing the second man back momentarily. Jaimie watched in horror as the battle continued, little more than a tangle of bodies before her, while the deadly pistol raged back and forth between the two fighters.

Finally she heard a metallic clink, and she saw the weapon slide across the floor, coming to a rest at her feet. In her terror, she picked up the gun and pulled herself to her feet.

"Stop!" she cried suddenly. Both of the men froze at the sound and looked up at her. The first man, her attacker, swore again and tried to scrambled to his feet, hoping to get the weapon from the girl. His opponent took advantage of the confusion and grabbed him from behind, striking across the side of the head. The first man fell to the ground, completely unconscious.

"E-Erik?" she gasped. Her rescuer looked up at her, an unreadable expression written across the unmasked half of his face.

"Yes, Jaimie. You're safe now. Hurry, go and get some rope."

"Rope?" the girl stammered stupidly.

"Unless you intend to shoot him," Erik said darkly. Jaimie's eyes went even wider, and she threw the gun away as though it had burned her. She nodded, despite her horror, and rushed off to fetch rope from the barn. She returned a moment later and handed the rope to Erik, who had not yet risen from the ground.

Erik took the thing and immediately began to twist it into a familiar knot: the Punjab lasso. Mechanically he widened it enough to engulf his enemy's head, but a bristle on the back of his neck forced him to look up. Jaimie was looking at him, horror etched across her face. It took him a moment to realize what still frightened her, but at last he understood. He lowered the lasso, tightening it around the man's wrists, rather than his neck. With the rest of the rope he secured his arms against his chest.

"He isn't going anywhere," he said wearily.

"Thank you, Erik," Jaimie said. He looked up at her, dragging himself to his feet, only to stumble down again. Jaimie rushed forward and caught him, and caught sight of a patch of red that was spreading down his thigh.

"Erik!" she cried out. "Erik, you're hurt!" Her rescuer looked quizzically at her, then glanced down to examine the blood, before returning his gaze to the girl. His eyes seemed to take longer than normal to focus on her face.

"It doesn't matter," he said heavily.

"Of course it does," Jaimie said, pulling him up. She staggered under Erik's weight, but managed to stay on her feet. She guided him to his room, where he slumped onto his bed. "Wait one moment," she instructed, and disappeared from the room. A moment later she returned, her arms full of bandages and other medical equipment.

Marcel sprinted down the dirt road to his home. He wanted to leave work early, but his manager had forbidden it, insisting that Marcel was overreacting, that Paris was full of pickpockets and vagabonds that had never worried the worker, and had never given him any trouble in the past.

'But this isn't a simple thief!' Marcel had argued. 'He's raped eight women! Killed a dozen people!'

The manager had gotten angry at this. He insisted that the chances of the serial killer coming to his house were far too slim for such alarm. Marcel fumed, but knew better than to argue further. How could that fool understand? According to his coworkers, the last attack had occurred just a week ago just the day they had rescued Erik from a city alley.

How could the idiot manager understand that the infamous killer might be at his house at that very moment, alone with his sister?

Finally he was at the door. Finding it unlocked, he threw it open.

"Jaimie!" he shouted into the house, gasping for breath. "Jaimie! Are you here?"

"Marcel? What's wrong?" his sister asked, coming out of the hall. She looked worried, but unhurt. He sighed in relief.

"Thank goodness you're all right!" he said, hugging her suddenly.

"Yes, I'm fine! But what's this all about?" Marcel released her.

"I was worried about you, Jaimie! A madman has been prowling the cityI heard it at the factoryI was afraid he might have come here! But you're safe." He laughed, still giddy from the rush of his panic. "I was worried for nothing!" But Jaimie didn't laugh with him. Instead she looked oddly at her brother.

"Not for nothing," she murmured.

"What?" Marcel asked, a chill rising through his spine.

"He came here, Marcel. And he's in the kitchen. Right now."


	5. Chapter 5: Convalescent

Disclaimer: Nope. Nothing. I don't even own the mask I wore on St. Patrick's day. Which is seriously sad.

AN: I saw Phantom again yesterday. And today was the first day of my first job (a bagger at Kroger). But next week is Spring Break, so I should be able to write more. I am SOOOOOO sorry I haven't been updating! Forgive me! And thank you all for your reviews!

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**Chapter 5: Convalescent**

Erik stirred, waking from an uneasy doze. He winced as he felt a sharp sing in his leg.

"Are you in pain?" Jaimie asked softly. He looked over and saw him sitting at his bedside.

"No," he lied, "It is uncomfortable, but nothing more." Jaimie smiled sadly. There was no fooling her. Erik searched for some other topic to distract her attention. "Where is Marcel? I thought he would be home by now."

"He was; he arrived a little after you fell asleep, but he went to take...that man...to the police. He will be back soon."

"Ah," he laughed wryly. "I'm willing to bet he was angry."

"He nearly fainted from shock when he heard," Jaimie agreed with a slight giggle. She too, Erik noticed, was latching on to whatever humor she could find. To the only sanity that seemed to remain in her fragile world. He studied her now, for the first time since the attack. It had passed at least an hour before, but her face was still deathly pale, though her breath had eased to a steady rythm. There was also something in her eyes, almost like a deer under the icy stare of a huntsman, too terrified to move, yet always dreading the beast she knew was just out of sight. Something about her eyes tore at Erik's very soul. He suddenly grabbed her hand, keeping her carefully under his grip.

"Jaimie, you need not be afraid. That wretched man is gone. The police will take him far away, where he will never be able to hurt you again. Nobody will ever hurt you again, Jaimie. I'll be here. I'll protect you. You have nothing to fear." The outburst suprised even himself. He, who had never recieved words of sympathy or strength, whose only love had abandoned him so quickly.

Needless to say, he was more than a little alarmed when Jaimie slumped slowly forward, her entire body trembling. He gingerly touched her shoulder with his free hand, hoping not to frighten her, and heard her soft voice weave through a curtain of the thick hair that now hung over her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean...for you to be hurt..."

"I know you didn't, Jaimie," he murmured, sitting up, the pain in his leg forgotten. This was strange. What creature had ever felt remorse for harming him? The Devil's Child? And yet...it was just like this girl. He cursed himself for knowing nothing of comfort, but tried, nonetheless, to calm the girl who was now weeping by his side.

Marcel wandered wearily into Erik's room, several new bandages in his arms. He saw his little sister asleep, her head and shoulders resting on the bed, while her rescuer smoothed her hair. Erik looked up, and there was no suprise in his eyes as they met Marcel's.

"Is she all right?" The younger man asked. The elder nodded pensively.

"Your sister has a strong heart," he said. "I don't know of many other women who could have lasted through such an experience."

"That man...Cain Porterson...Jaimie wouldn't tell me what happened. He didn't...?" Erik looked heavily down at the sleeping girl.

"He tried. And he nearly killed her."

"I heard," Marcel said, twitching slightly. Erik offered a questioning glance. "He woke up on the way to the station, and he managed to displace his gag." He studied the wall, cringing as he remembered the repulsive man. "Everything that came out of his mouth was worse than venom; every word was raving about murder and...I've never seen such a deranged man. It's a good thing for him that we got to the police when we did. If he had spoken one more word, I swear I would have killed him."

"But you didn't either," Erik observed.

"You tried, too?" Marcel laughed dryly. It seemed now like some grim joke they shared. "What stopped you?"

"Your sister," the elder said simply.

"Me too," Marcel said with a slight smile. "Jaimie has that effect on people. And as much as I would like to see that monster die for what he did, I don't think I could punish him myself. Not if I wanted to look her in the eyes again. She can't stand seeing anyone in pain. She never could."

"It is a fine quality. One that is in an unfortunately short supply, I have noticed."

"Yes. I wanted to thank you, by the way. For saving her. If you hadn't come when you did..." Marcel tensed for an instant.

"Too much is wasted on 'If'," Erik said pensively. The sentiment summoned Marcel from his anger.

"You're right," he agreed with a faint smile.

For the rest of that week, Erik was bedridden. To counter the monotony of his recovery, the two siblings made kept him in frequent company, and Jaimie brought him an armful of books for the times when they were away. She informed him that they had belonged to the previous owner of the house when he asked, but she knew little else about them. All of Marcel's previous distrust of the man had vanished, replaced with an awed admiration. Erik had taken the position of the young man's hero: everything he said was immediately accepted as the truth, and his word was law. Soon Erik was strong enough to limp through the house on his own, and he made a new discovery: Marcel was an excellent storyteller.

Late one evening, several days after his first solo venture from his bed, Erik woke in the clutches of a cruel dream, one of Christine and cages and miles of rope, every yard of it spun into the all too familiar Punjab lasso. He shook his head, hoping to clear it of the gruesome visions, and threw himself from his bed. He shuddered again, and decided to retreat into the comfortable hallways of the house. He stalked, catlike, from the room, practicing his infamous silent movement. As he crept into the hallway, he heard Jaimie cry out. He was instantly in the living room, tensed for another fight, though he remained invisible in the shadows.

"Oh!" Jaimie said again. "And then what happened, Marcel?" Erik started, utterly confused.

"Erhn thought he was doomed, pinned against the stone as he was, but he remembered the old woman's words, and he knew he could not give in. He would not die so easily. So as the lion paused for a breath, he seized his dagger and slayed it, right there! But the effort was too much for the boy, and he fell to the ground beside the lion's body. It was there that a group of traveling merchants found him. At first they thought that the lion was sleeping beside one of its latest victims, and so they tried to run, but they heard him calling out softly to them.

'Please help me,' he begged. 'I'm too tired to move, and I'm afraid that I may die of thirst if I don't drink something soon.' 'Forgive us, poor sir,' one of the merchants said. 'But thirst is the last of your worries. The creature beside you will kill you quickly when it wakes, but we don't dare come near to help you. We all have families to return to, and we cannot allow that lion to slay us for helping a man already dead.'

'Lion? The lion is no more than a corpse. The Beast King allowed me to slay him, though his kindness didn't come without price! Please, he will not rise again, I promise. But I need aid now. Give me a drop of water, if no more!' The merchants were still frightened, but one of them finally mustered his courage and crept forward, giving the man a drink. As soon as Erhn had enough to drink, he sat up and petted the body of the lion.

'You gave me a good fight, King,' he said kindly. 'But I still need to rescue my princess.' The corpse shifted under his touch, and the merchants suddenly saw the wound that had felled the feline. Awed, they brought him to their caravan and tended to his wounds and brought him to the next village, where they told everyone of his daring feat and the death of the lion..." Marcel had been leaning forward in his seat, his words capturing his sister and his guest in the same moment. "But that's enough for tonight. It's getting late, Jaimie. You need to get to bed." His face seemed to lighten as he withdrew into the living world.

"Are you sure? Can't you just tell me a little more?"

"I'm afraid not, little sister. Not tonight, at least," her brother laughted.

"It's too bad. You tell the best stories, Marcel." Erik almost laughed out loud. A story! And a good one, at that. Erik was impressed; the story would have made a fine opera. Musing to himself, Erik returned to his room before his two hosts got a chance to discover him.

He lay in bed, the horror of his nightmares forgotten, drifting to sleep as a new tune floated through his head. It was the tune of a man, dying of wounds and thirst, who hung to a fragment of hope in a time of nothingness.

* * *

AN: okay. So 'thank you for rescuing her' sounds INCREDIBLY hokey. But it's an awkward situation. And very difficult to write. And the ministory has some signifigance, but not much, so if it doesn't make sense, remember that it's currently 2 AM, and that this was just a transition chapter anyway. Don't fret, though, my dear reviewers. I will add more soon. 


	6. Chapter 6: Quagmire

Disclaimer: There are times that make you glad that I don't own anything.

AN: Just for you, DAEMON FIRE: here's my explanations to your...less than delicate reviews. I'm glad you liked the stories well enough to want an update, but I'm afraid I didn't. I tried to continue writing recently, when I made a horrible realization: as good as this story was for my development as an author, and as fun as it was to write, everything was wrong. Erik's name wasn't (having never been to Broadway, I can't attest to that, but I've read the book three times, which preceded the musical by a considerable period of time, so I'll venture to say that the Author's choice of names was the correct one, spelling and all.), but as I went back to my notes, my stories, and everything else, I realized how deep a pit I was in: Erik is out of character (and continues to be for the rest of the planned story), Marcel finds himself in an angsty predicament, and I spend about two chapters as a songfic. When I made this discovery, I seriously wanted to delete Patient alltogether, but decided to leave it up as a humbling warning to myself and others, reminding all that this is how a good idea (I believe I flatter myself too much there) can become a lousy story.

But to regain your favor, perhaps, here is the remnant of what I have written. The story is (thank the heavens) out of my hands.

* * *

Odds and Ends: Quagmire

"_Give me to drink,_

_Give me a chance at the life I would lead,_

_Give me hope that I may yet succeed,_

_Give me a prayer..._

_Give me a thought,_

_Give me mem'ry of breath that was lent,_

_Give a care for the strength that I spent,_

_Give me a sign..._

_Though you now turn away in fear,_

_May you still remember I am here,_

_Send a thought to the man in the shadows--_

_Bathed in Blood!_

_I am too broken now to rise,_

_But there is life still in my eyes...!_

_Fear not the demons all around me--_

_Long since dead..._

_Until I am done,_

_Give me hope to still look to the sun,_

_Give a chance at the life that I won,_

_Don't turn away..._

_And give me to drink..."_

Erik opened his eyes, surprised at himself. He hadn't meant to sing the words of the song out loud. He hadn't even meant to write the song; it had formed in his dreams, as had so many of his former songs. Those songs had once had a life of their own, and with that life, a power.

A power long since dead.

He sighed and rose from his bed, hoping to forget the song that clung to life within him.

* * *

Erik had made a habit of sneaking out of bed in the evening and secretly listening to Marcel as he told his little sister stories. For several nights on end he had captivated both of his listeners with the tale of the young blacksmith Erhn, who battled all forms of peril and danger for the sake of becoming a knight and rescuing his beloved princess Seira. Meanwhile, the princess, who was being forced to marry a cruel emperor, had run away, disappearing without a trace. The last character of the tale was an old woman who had come to Erhn's village, half dead with hunger. He had taken her in and taken care of her, and in return, she had given him clues to Seira's whereabouts.

Though it was a charming story, it bloomed in the telling: as Marcel narrated the events, the cottage around him seemed to melt away, replaced by mountains and meadows. The young knight became as real as his inventor, and the his every opponent was as tangible as it was terrible. Later, as Erik drifted to sleep each night, tunes began to weave through his head, accompanying the tale he had heard, though he kept these a secret. Despite their beauty, they were too grim a reminder of the life he had once known.

And of Christine.

* * *

_The half month passed, and the last traces of winter faded at last into spring, though a chill still pervaded the air. The song took form, unfolded and grew. He tended it like a rose—trimming away unwanted notes and words, giving special attention to a crescendo or a pause, coaxing it into a thing of beauty. More grew from its roots, merged and diverged. They engulfed him with almost the same fervor as it had before, and--_

"_You have a fine voice," Marcel observed._

_Erik jerked. "How long have you been there?" he asked carefully._

"_Seira had blue eyes, by the way. I don't think it should make much of a difference in the tune—it's got the same number of sounds to it."_

"_I see," the visitor said._

* * *

AN: After this, Erik and Marcel conspire to write an opera of their own, with Marcel's stories and Erik's songs, which they sell to the Opera Populaire. They use the funds of the money to take Jaimie to see it performed, and use further royalties to put them in a considerable supply of money. But Marcel, more disillusioned than his sister, insists that he continue working, just in case.

AN: A later scene was typed up here. Immediately before this scene, a friend of Marcel's had come to tell Jaimie that her brother had died in a factory accident (which were extremely common and usually fatal in this period of time)(I took considerable pains to research this while I was writing it.)

* * *

Marcel was buried the next day. His tomb was in the corner of the graveyard, close to the line of trees. All that day, his friends came to pay their respects to the young man.

"I'm sorry," one of the mourners said. "Your brother was a good man."

"Thank you, Jean-Baptiste," Jaimie said quietly. Her voice was strained, though there were no tears on her face. She had been standing at the edge of the treeline, watching the mourners and the grave all day. Erik had come with her, though he disappeared into the trees when the first strangers had arrived. Her offering—several lilies—lay meekly over the churned earth and trembled as a cool wind brushed through the silky petals. The wind was a forerunner to the fast approaching dusk, and Jean-Baptiste left with the last of the mourners.

Jaimie stepped slowly toward the tomb. Erik had not reappeared—he had probably gone home already. She opened her mouth to say something to Marcel's spirit, as all the others had, but found that she couldn't. The gravestone, though it bore his name, couldn't smile and laugh with her. It couldn't tease her or tell her stories. It couldn't summon her brother and make everything all right again. Her mouth closed with a shuddering breath. She felt alone, completely forsaken. Marcel had been her brother, her only family. Tears formed in her eyes, and suddenly she pitched forward, her legs no longer able to support her weight. Her entire body now heaved under the weight of long withheld sobs. Her bitter cries now filled the air with unrestrained grief and pain. A low cry of thunder resonated from the sky, adding heaven's sympathy to her mourning. A drop fell from the abyss above her, mingling with her own tears, and another, and another.

A thick, heavy warmth settled over Jaimie. She paused from her mourning for an instant, only to draw a long, shuddering breath, before falling to grief again. She did not move for a long time—not until her tears fell dry and her body was stilled of its mournful convulsions. It was late, she noticed, though she didn't mind. Darkness was a suiting environment for her walk home. She rose to her knees, shuddering as a few drops of icy water ran down the back of her dress.

She realized suddenly that, though her head and hands were drenched, her body was not. A long, black cloak was draped over her, sparing her from the unforgiving rain. She looked up and saw Erik, looking down sadly at her. His fine clothes hung miserably on his frame, shamefully wet. Jamie smiled weakly up at him and tried to stand, only to slide in the mud. Erik offered her his hand, which he gratefully took, and lifted her to her feet. He put an arm around her shoulder and guided her back home, catching her when she stumbled and giving her the strength to keep walking.

"Your clothes are damp," he said as he brought her to her room. "Hurry and change before you catch cold."

"Oh...right," Jaimie said dully, and meandered into her room. "Thank you..." And she closed the door behind her. Erik shivered, his own garments soaked through, and hurried to change into something dry himself. A few minutes later he emerged, slinking to stand guard outside her door.

Nothing.

Unsure, he decided to count this as a good sign and went to the living room, sorely missing the labyrinth of spy holes and secret passages of the opera house, and lit a fire to drive out the chill that had settled over the house. He stared into the flame, no longer aware of time itself, when he heard the slow tread of approaching footsteps. He looked up to see Jaimie—she had changed into dry clothes as well, though her hair still dragged limply against her head. In her arms she carried a dripping bundle, Erik's cloak, which she silently laid out in front of the fire to dry.

"Thank you," she said at last, trying again to smile. The effort she exerted wounded him, though not as much as her eyes did. They were hollow and haunted, stricken with a pain that could not be hidden.

"It's all right," Erik said gently. "Come—sit down. You have had enough pain." Jamie bowed her head and obeyed, still trying not to look miserable and failing terribly. Erik floundered, cursing himself for not knowing how to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. He noticed that her breathing was still labored.

"Don't be," he said firmly. "There is no shame in mourning, Jaimie." She nodded meekly, and again they fell into silence. After several heavy minutes, Erik finally arrived at a solution, even if it was temporary: his voice. He had seen it entrance hundreds. Jaimie, at least, needed to forget the world and its pains for a few moments. Now he needed a song...it could not be one of Marcel's operas, and she was too weary to listen to anything loud or fast. A lullaby, he decided at last. A song of mourning, though she would never know it to be one.

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation..." he began slowly. Jaimie's eyes opened a little more, gazing quizzically at her friend. "Darkness stirs and wakes imagination...silently the senses abandon their defenses..." Jaimie leaned closer to him. "Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor, grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender...turn your face away from the garish light of day!" he wrapped an arm protectively around her and pulled her against his chest. "Turn your thoughts from cold, unfeeling light..." he felt as well as heard her breath begin to slow and calm. "And listen to the music of the night...close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams..."

* * *

_AN: I'm afraid this is all I managed to type before I gave up entirely. The eventual plan is that he finally manages to calm her down, and years later, they get married, living together in that house. Jaimie writes children's stories, while Erik becomes a bit of a tutor._

_The end._


End file.
